


The Greatest Show on Earth

by ifyoucouldfly



Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: Disabled Character, Don't let the warnings scare you off, Found Family, Major Character Injury, Minor Character Death, Multi, circus AU, emphasis on the bad decisions, emphasis on the dramatic, emphasis on the gays, it's really stupid please read it, pretty much all the bad stuff is in flashbacks, the story itself is just lots of dramatic gays making bad decisions
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-07-01
Updated: 2016-08-16
Packaged: 2018-07-19 11:26:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,066
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7359394
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ifyoucouldfly/pseuds/ifyoucouldfly
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jack Zimmermann and Eric Bittle both nearly had it all, and they both watched everything crumble before their eyes. Years later, their paths converge in a small upstart circus based out of a tiny Massachusetts town, and the story that ensues is one of reconciling with the past and turning to the future. And also of bunnies, bengal tiger liberation, flirting by way of magic tricks, flirting by way of throwing knives, numerous motorcycle accidents, dense gays taking too long to recognize feelings for one another, and an outright obscene amount of pie.</p>
<p>(this AU is based off of a headcanon written by the awesome epiikegster on tumblr (you think i can think this shit up I’m not that creative y’all please))</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. intro

**Author's Note:**

> Wow hey so new au. I'm kind of a bitch for circus AUs, so when I found this one by epiikegster (on tumblr), I died a little inside and had to write it out (with a few creative liberties taken). 
> 
> So to start it out is a super (super) short little intro to the story to kind of test the waters I guess. Chapter one should be up tomorrow, with considerably more substance to it (debatably).
> 
> But Elaine, you say, don't you have another WIP already? What about that? And to that I say,
> 
> Well here's the chapter y'all have fun.

The circus, at the root of it all, is anything but glamorous. 

After all, cramming a few hundred people into a tent that smells like elephant shit and sweat and then letting them watch a bunch of college dropouts light things on fire and do backflips 30 feet in the air is _not_ something one would typically think of when asked to provide an example of glamor.

And perhaps that is the greatest beauty of the circus, that glorious art of taking something ugly and freakish and twisting it into something enticing, something mysterious, something _glamorous_. 

Jack Zimmermann had never felt particularly glamorous himself. Not when he was a chubby kid, standing next to his father who held the world in his calloused hands, or his mother who shone brighter than the big top spotlights. Not when he was in his prime, an overzealous teenager with too many possibilities, too much pressure on his shoulders; an Icarus on his tightrope. Certainly not after his inevitable fall.

Even now, in his nicest suit ( _“Too much?”, he’d asked Shitty hours before_ ), standing with arms outspread and a smile to match his father’s, with the heat of the spotlights and the weight of a thousand eyes on him, he couldn’t help but feel a shadow of who he was meant to be.

But people didn’t pay money to come watch a shadow. They came to see glamorous.

So Jack Zimmermann, ringleader of the Cirque du Samwell, sucked in a huge breath and let out a booming, _“Ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls...welcome to the greatest show on Earth.”_


	2. Jack

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quick lil Q + A before this chapter starts y'all. 
> 
> Q: Is this chapter going to be mostly dull exposition?  
> A: Yep
> 
> Q: Are you going to instantly regret everything about this chapter?   
> A: Haha whoa you got it dude
> 
> Q: Wow, this mediocre writing is super enjoyable to me! Where do I get more of your cool self, Elaine?  
> A: Well, that's an easy one. Head on over to @zimmbcni on tumblr for more of my ramblings about the Hockey Gays!
> 
> But enough of this self-deprecating bullshit, let's get on to the story (also sidenote thanks so so much to everyone leaving comments/kudos/subscribing to this stupid thing, it really helps me out so so much and I appreciate the fuck out of it).

Jack woke a solid hour before the sun would crest over the hills surrounding Samwell, Massachusetts. This kind of hour was heavy, vulnerable, laced with a bizarre mixture of anticipation and lethargy that couldn’t quite be placed. It was comfortable.

He sat up, brushed a hand over his eyes, and muffled a yawn with his palm before swinging his legs over to perch at the side of his cot. It took a minute of bleary fumbling before he managed to locate his liner and roll it over his stump, and a few more after that to finally click his prosthesis into place. 

By the time Jack had made his way out to the dirt road that ran behind the empty lot where Cirque du Samwell was stationed, the sky was a deep, inky blue, and the stars had faded from vision. He broke off in a steady jog, pumping his arms slowly, controlled inhale, controlled release.

The road ahead and the fields around him were empty, the way he preferred it. He was used to people staring at him; it was part of his job. He was meant to be the center of attention under the big top, meant to have eyes following his every move. It was nice to have some time to be utterly alone, no questioning eyes on his leg, on him.

Jack ran until the sky was bathed in fluorescent oranges and pinks blooming out from the newly woken sun. He ran until sweat dripped off his face and his chest burned from exertion. He ran until he was right back where he started, standing before the towering tents striped in white and red.

He stood still for a moment, watching the canvas flap inwards and out with the wind. It had been five years now since he’d purchased the failing circus. Five years since his life, which had already been flipped around and shaken up and throttled half to death, had been changed forever once again.

Jack made his way to the emptied-out train car he called home for a quick shower before heading down to breakfast. 

Everyone was awake by now, and were all, for the most part, gathered underneath a massive canvas tent, enthusiastically chattering over one another as they piled their plates with bacon and eggs and squeezed together in rows of plastic tables.

Jack had just gotten himself a plate of (questionable) eggs and bacon before the relative quiet of the tent was shattered with a “JACK ZIMMERMANN, GET YOUR GLORIOUS ASS OVER HERE AND SETTLE SOMETHING FOR US.”

And thus, Jack’s morning of peaceful solitude was over.

“What is it, Shitty?” He asked, strolling up to the man in question, who was currently attempting to lick egg out of his mustache and looking extremely dignified while doing so.

Shitty shifted his gaze up to meet Jack’s, chewing as he gestured around with his fork. “So Lards and I were talking about Johnson, right?”

Jack felt his eyebrows crawl upwards as he glanced at Lardo, who gave him a tiny smirk. “And?”

“And, we were speculating as to why he just up and left. I personally think he ran off to meet up with some secret lover. I’m thinking someone famous, someone he maybe met while we were on the last leg of our tour, LA, you know? Now hear me out. You know who was in the area when we were last performing? Fucking _Oprah_ , man.”

“Shitty.”

“Alright, alright. Fine. Anyways, Lardo proposed that he ran away to join some secret world order, like the illuminati or whatever.”

“Think about it, dude.” She cut in, raising an eyebrow over a perfectly winged eye. “He was always saying weird shit, you know? Remember what he said when he left? _‘About time to get this thing started, huh?’_. That's fishy as fuck. Four years with the troupe, ended with zero explanation. Besides, he was always saying cryptic shit like that. The guy knows too much. Just makes sense to me.”

“So what is it?” Shitty asked, whipping around to face Jack, shoulder-length brown hair following the motion. “What do you think is more realistic, Oprah or the Illuminati?”

Jack pretended to chew thoughtfully on his bacon, unsure of how to approach this. He would typically assume they were joking, but with Shitty and Lardo, one could never tell. “Er...I’ll have to side with Lardo on this one, I suppose. Sorry, Shitty.”

“Ha!” Lardo crowed triumphantly as Shitty sulked over the brim over his coffee mug. 

The trio ate in a comfortable silence for a few brief minutes before Shitty spoke up. “Well, no matter _why_ the crazy bastard left, we still gotta get a replacement for him. He was our best guy on trapeze, and we start touring again in, what? Two months?”

“I second that.” Lardo cut in. “We need more guys in general, Jack. We’ve only got Ollie on tightrope at this point, and we’ve had to stick Farmer on kitchen duty, which is _not_ turning out well.”

Jack gave an affirmative shuffle of his eggs. “Yeah. _Yeah_.” 

He gave a sigh, mulling over his options before coming to the decision of not making any decisions. “Shitty, Lardo, can I trust you two with recruitment?”

“Yes!” Their cries came simultaneously, both beaming at him excitedly.

Jack felt a little grin twitch to life on his lips. Maybe he was making the wrong decision here. While they were his best friends, the pair could be a bit - well, there wasn’t exactly a word to describe them.

By this point, most of the tent’s occupants had filed out, and Jack stood, tossing the paper plate into the trash nearby. “I’m going to go make my rounds. Catch up with you two later, eh?”

The pair gave an affirmative impersonation of his _“Eh?”_ and burst out into giggles as he walked away.

Jack took his time walking towards the big top, basking in the feeling of the sun on his back, the conversation bubbling around him, the dust kicking up from the dirt road beneath his shoes. This was the world he had nearly left behind; this was the world that had brought him back from what was almost the point of no return.

Jack took a deep breath as he stepped into the cool darkness of the big top, taking a second to survey the chaos around him.

Chowder and Farmer were practicing some elaborate magic routine involving a ballgown and several live doves. Judging by the amount of bird poop and terrified screaming on Chowder’s end, it didn’t seem to be working out very well.

On the opposite end of the big top was Dex and Nursey, two of the more versatile members of their troupe, who were currently arguing _again_. “Nursey, fuck _off_. I told you I need to work on the fire eating routine.” “Bro, chill. Don’t get so worked up, God. We just need more work on the knife throwing.” “Fine. You want to see knife throwing, _I’ll show you knife throwing_ -”

Jack took a step back to dodge two of the circus’s dancers, March and April, who came rocketing by on a pair of unicycles whilst tossing three tennis balls and a chainsaw back and forth between each other. “Sorry, Jack!” April called, sounding as un-sorry as possible.

Jack shook his head, raising his focus upwards, to where the Ollie was crossing the tightrope wire, arms folded in. He felt a familiar twinge of longing, and shifted his attention instead to the circus’s stuntmen, Ransom and Holster, who were doing laps around the troupe on a motorcycle - Holster driving, and Ransom doing warmup stretches on the back.

Jack was suddenly struck by how far they’d come in the five years the troupe had been together, and by how far there still was to go. And he was ready for it, Jack realized with a tiny smile, allowing himself just a moment of pride for the accomplishments he had made with this troupe, this odd little family of circus freaks. Until - 

“Hey - _hey_ , Dex! Do not _stab Nursey_ \- oh, _Crisse_ \- March, hey, watch the chainsaw! Fuck’s sake!”

These moments were fleeting, truly.

 

**11 years ago**

 

Balance comes from the core. 

It’s all control - controlled inhale, controlled release. Arms outright, chin up, eyes forward. Tight core. Easy step forward, trust your leg, don’t watch.

Walking the tightrope is terrifying, it is exhilarating. It is _lightness_ in a way that could never be described.

Keep the chin up, core tight. Next step. Controlled inhale, controlled ex-

_Falling._

For a brief moment there is nothing, a simple flash of shock, before the panic bubbles up from his gut, tingling at his skin, wrenching the breath from his lungs. 

He can faintly hear voices in his ear over the thundering pulse in his ears, _“Turn, Jack! Turn!”_

He does just seconds before impact, thrusting his shoulder sharply and flipping over onto his back right as he sinks into the net.

Moments later, his father is at his side, gripping the edge of the net. “Jack, you alright?”

His reply comes with a shaky breath, hands gripping the netting like a lifeline. “Oui, papa.” His stomach is still reeling as he crawls across the net and vaults over to the floor.

Jack watches his mother rush over, a flurry of worried gestures and cooing assurances. “Oh, my _baby_ , are you alright? Christ, I _told_ your father you needed the pole still... _Bob Zimmermann, what_ exactly _are you smiling about?!_ ”

Bob’s grin grows wider, chuckling lightly as he gestures widely around him. “Alicia, it’s his first fall. Our boy’s growing up.”

Jack watches his mother’s stern (and frankly terrifying) face melt into a smile to rival his father’s. “Oh, Jack, my baby...we’re so proud of you.” 

They’re all hugging now, a tangle of limbs and giggles and tiny affirmations. It’s not often that Jack feels this light when he’s not in the air. It’s a feeling that sends his head reeling just as much as his fall, in an entirely different way.


	3. Shitty

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Q: Wtf, man? Why did this chapter take 5 years for you to post?  
> A: Uh
> 
> Q: Well, it better be good if it took you this goddamn long  
> A: Haha yeah well see here's the thing
> 
> \--
> 
> Sorry it took so long. Have some shit content. Honestly bless anyone who's patient enough to stick around for this fuckery.
> 
> Also fair! warning! For use of alcohol in this chapter. And cigarettes. And weed. Overkill? I mean probably. Fuck it I don't know what the hell I'm doing heyoo...  
> ALSO ANOTHer fair warning for a tiny lil bit of homophobia towards the end of the chapter :((

Typically by now, Shitty and Lardo would be practicing their routine. But today, their winch operator, a middle-aged, beer-belly adorning man whom everyone called Cripps, was doing some extra maintenance work with the assistance of Dex (who had become an apprentice to him in all but name). This left them with some extra time to go review tapes.

About two weeks ago, they’d started advertising some openings for acrobats and tightrope walkers at the Cirque. By now, the audition tapes were piling up, and the pair had been too lazy to get around to the daunting task of reviewing the auditions. Now, they had no excuse.

They met in Jack’s “office”, a train car with a monitor and a few beanbag chairs, cracked open a couple of pepsis, and set to work.

A few hours later, Shitty was left wondering why exactly they’d volunteered.

There was only so much you could take of watching a bunch of eighteen-year-olds do bizarre series of crooked flips and contortions to Katy Perry songs, and he was just about at his limit. He was considering calling it a day when Lardo chimed in.

“Dude, holy motherfuck. Is this what I think it is?”

“What?” Shitty asked, turning his attention away from the kid on screen - a tightrope walker named Tony who seemed pretty good - and studying an awestruck Lardo. “Shitty, look.”

Shitty looked. And then promptly spit up a huge glob of pudding all over his white crop top.

“Holy motherfuck! Lards, is this -” “Brah, there’s no fucking way.” “Bro, put the fuckin’ tape in. We gotta see this shit.”

Lardo pulled out the tape with perfectly manicured nails - they’d done each other’s over a Parks and Rec marathon the night before - and slid the tape in.

The boy on the screen was paused, standing straight with his arms outstretched, grasping the trapeze bar in front of him. He had an athlete’s body - compact, lean, muscular.

The boy sucked a breath in, then tipped forward off the platform, swinging himself around so he was hanging upside down, then extending so he was hanging from the bar by one foot alone. As the bar swung back again, he folded his body so his hands were grasping the bard, then swung back and forth until he flipped completely around the bar, dismounting with a few tight spins before he hit the net below.

Whether or not he was who Shitty thought he was, there was no denying that he was skilled.

The footage cut to repeated strings of him performing various flips and balancing acts on the trapeze before the camera switched to a closer angle, and Shitty slammed the spacebar just as the performer lifted his head through another spin. “There! Look! That’s totally fucking him!”

The face was blurred, but after a quick google search and a good 15 seconds of studying between the two images, Shitty was certain he knew who he was. But that just raised the question, why them?

Every acrobat from LA to Seoul knew him, at least by name. So why the fuck was he auditioning for some tiny circus with barely enough of a following to pull off a tour of the northeast?

“Why the fuck is he auditioning for us?” Lardo blurted, vocalizing Shitty’s thoughts. “This kid could send a video to Cirque du Soleil of himself falling down a flight of stairs and he’d land a headlining act.” 

Shitty stroked his fingers through his mustache. “I don’t know, Lards, fuck, does it even matter? We gotta contact him before he realizes what he’s doing.”

Lardo clamped her teeth down on the inside of her cheek, wrinkled her brow, and set to typing up a response. “Okay, how’s this?” She asked a few moments later. “Upon reviewing your tape, the Cirque du Samwell would gladly accept your application for an on-site audition. We look forward to seeing you soon!”

Shitty shook his head. “Lards, no. You’re making it sound like a fuckin’ job interview.” Lardo narrowed her eyes, lip twitching. “It is a job interview, dipshit. You got any suggestions?”

Few people had the balls to stand up to Lardo Duan. Shitty rarely did, but today, he was feeling ballsy. It was that sort of day. 

“I do, actually, just -”

“Oops. Looks like I accidentally pressed send on accident. Sorry, Shits.”

Well, he was never doing that again.

Shitty found himself grinning despite himself. “Lardo, this is fucking huge. Like mega-huge. Like, if this kid is actually dumb enough to stay with this shitshow…”

“...it’ll be a big fucking publicity boost for the Cirque.” Lardo finished, a familiar glint in her eye. It was the sort of glint that could mean anything from you’ve-got-no-idea-what-i’m-capable-of to i’ve-won-and-you-don’t-even-know-we’re-playing-yet to i’m-about-to-make-some-really-irresponsible-decisions-probably-involving-booze. In this case, it was quite possibly all three.

Lardo stood then, cocking a hip to the side. “You up for a celebratory beer or twelve?” 

Shitty checked the time - 3:16 PM. Classy. “Abso-fucking-lutely.”

Twenty minutes later found them perched atop an emptied-out train car with a pile of empty cans between them.

“And so I’m like, Cam, babe, are we a thing or are we not a thing? Cause we’ve messed around a bunch, and I thought we were pretty much on the same page about the whole no-relationship thing, right? But now she’s being all weird, like, asking me for labels, but then like ten seconds later, she’s doesn’t want anything to do with me? I’m just...confused.” She trailed off, taking a swig of her beer, setting it down, shaking a cigarette from the package that kept permanent residence in her jacket pocket.

Shitty offered her a light, eyes trailing from her slightly furrowed brow to her hollowed cheeks as she sucked in a breath. On a skin-deep level, there weren’t too many similarities between his two best friends, but Shitty had always admired the sharpness of both Jack and Lardo’s features. Where Jack was a sort of oxymoron, his face both sharp and gentle at the same time (huge droopy eyes perched atop cheekbones that could carve a fucking turkey), Lardo was all angled brows and heart-shaped jawline framed with a neat undercut.

She took another drag from the cigarette, pulling her cheeks taut across her cheekbones. Yeah, that was the word for Lardo. Sharp. Everything about her was _sharp_.

Shitty watched the smoke curl out from her parted lips; a flash of tongue, a glimpse of teeth behind a curtain of red lipstick. Something settled deep in his stomach. 

He wanted to tell her she was beautiful. Instead, he lifted the joint he was holding to his lips and sucked. _“Fuck’s sake, Shitty. You sound like one of Nursey’s emo poems with all this whiny broody shit.”_

Lardo abruptly let out a massive burp, startling a flock of pigeons nearby. “Fuck, bro, those eggs taste even nastier the second time ‘round.”

God, he was so in love with her.

“Hey, you two!”

A hand slammed the side of the train car, shaking the metal with a huge bang that wrenched an embarrassingly high-pitched yelp from Shitty and caused Lardo to dig her nails into his bicep.

“Get down from there!” Cripps called up to them. “Rigging’s all done, you kids head on to practice.”

Lardo snuffed out her cigarette on the edge of the car, and Shitty called down a quick “Thanks, Cripps.”

The pair ditched the beers and vaulted off the train car to make their way to the small acro practice tent in relative silence. It was situated on the outskirts of the property, removed from the constant backdrop of organized chaos that characterized the Cirque. Here, they could set about the now routine task of strategically looping fabric around their forearms and ankles in peace.

“Ready to go?” Lardo asked once they had given the silks a few experimental pulls. “Let’s run through the finale - sound good?” 

With an affirmative grunt from Shitty, Lardo grabbed a fistful of silks in either hand and began to climb, Shitty following right after.

Aerial silk was all about gracefulness - bodies spinning through the air, suspended by nothing more than two strands of fabric. 

Shitty knew he wasn’t exactly the definitive picture of grace - a 5’10, 160 pound white guy with a disproportionally large amount of body hair and a bad habit of shouting when he spoke. 

But here, hoisted up in the air, moving in tandem with his partner, limbs loosened by the alcohol in his veins, bodies stretching and falling and spinning and clutching, he was something entirely different than what he was on the ground.

**9 years ago**

There’s a heavy silence in the Knight family dining room, cut only by the scrape of silverware across ceramic and the occasional cough.

He sits, back straight, quiet as possible, carefully sawing through bites of steak thin enough to slip past the lump in his throat. 

This was the worst time of day. Normally, his father would be out at work, or holed up in his study, and they could all skirt around him. But at dinners, they are all forced into close proximity, and the tension in the air is suffocating. 

They’re a painful stereotype - his father with his whiskey and his temper, his mother with her pearls and her grief.

“Could you pass the salt, please?” His mother asks. He reaches across the table and places the shaker in her palm.

Silence again. 

His father clears his throat, and he tenses in anticipation. His father doesn’t often speak - in fact, he rarely ever even bothers to glance up from his drink - but when he does, he makes sure to critique every little flaw he can find. This time, he seems to have zeroed in on his little sister as a target.

“Emma, dear, how is -” He pauses, glances to his wife.

“Softball.” She offers.

“Right. Softball.” 

It’s posed like an innocent question, an attempt by his father at making conversation, but he knows better. He can see the wrinkle in his father’s nose, the distaste in his gaze. He knows how this works by now - it’s bait. By the blatant fear in his sister’s face, she knows too. All they can do now is sit back and wait for his inevitable dig.

“It’s going well.” She mumbles, face pale and knuckles clenched tight around her fork.

“Speak clearly, Emma. No mumbling.” His father reprimands, studying her closely, as if trying to pick out anything else before delivering his final critique.

His father lifts the napkin to his face, wipes his upper lip, places it down gently. “Emma, have you perhaps considered some - alternative activity?”

There it is.

Emma’s face crumbles. “Father, why? I like softball. I’m good at it.”

 _“She is, but of course you wouldn’t know,” ___He thinks to himself, pushing his mashed potatoes around on his plate. _“You’ve never been to a game.” ___

__“I know, dear, but aren’t you a bit...old for it now?” His father asks, voice dripping with honey, like this is another one of his business negotiations._ _

__“She’s eleven, Byron.” His mother chimes in, voice taught, and he felt his eyebrows shoot upwards. It was uncharacteristic of her to jump so readily to his and Emma’s defense. They must have fought earlier._ _

__Byron sighs exasperatedly, as if he isn’t reveling in this moment. As if he doesn’t love toying with them all. “My point exactly, Sandra. She’ll be going into sixth grade in a few weeks. Perhaps she’d like to try her hand at something different. What about tennis? The Watterson’s girls all play tennis.”_ _

__“I like softball, father.”_ _

__Sandra huffs, placing her silverware down. “Byron, Emma is very invested in softball. She’s already made the school team.”_ _

__Byron’s brow twitches. He’s not used to his wife intervening, and his calm exterior is cracking.  
“Emma, I don’t like you playing softball. I’m pulling you out.”_ _

__“Dad, that’s not fair!” Emma cries, jumping up from her seat._ _

___“Emmaline -” ____ _

___“Mom, tell him he’s being unfair!”_ _ _

___“Byron, you’re being unreasonable. Let her play softball, for Christ’s sakes.”_ _ _

___“Sandra, stay out of this.”_ _ _

___“Byron, she is not quitting - kids, go upstairs.”_ _ _

___He knows to take the chance while he can, and he snatches his sister’s hand and drags her from the room, quickening his pace as his parent’s voices rise._ _ _

___They make it to their shared room, but not quite quick enough to avoid hearing his father yell, “Sandra, I’m not going to let my daughter hang around with a bunch of lesbians, what would the people at work think-?”_ _ _

___He falls asleep that night to the soothing chorus of his parents screaming downstairs, his father’s words bouncing around his head, and his sister crying softly into her pillow._ _ _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> angst angst angst


End file.
